


Like Father, Like Son

by ellamena



Category: Fillmore!
Genre: Black Lives Matter, Gen, Memorial Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamena/pseuds/ellamena
Summary: Cornelius Fillmore has never seen his father cry. It's a mystery he's tried to solve his whole life. This Memorial Day, however, the unexpected death of an old acquaintance will change everything. A tribute to George Floyd, may he rest in peace. (Make sure to read disclaimers inside)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Like Father, Like Son

**Author's Note:**

> So, IDK if y’all have been watching the news lately, but things have gotten pretty… scary real up in the United States. The last few months have been really eye-opening for me. I starting writing this not long after George Floyd was killed as a way for me to try and process everything that was going on. The protests, the riots, the looting, the anger, the fear… It was completely overwhelming. I think, for the first time, I felt a fraction of how black people in America feel, and I was overcome with this heavy grief and sadness and shame. I’ve waited a long time to actually finish and post this while I listen and learn more and more. And I’m still really nervous to publish, but I feel like it’s time. 
> 
> With that being said, I’m also making the disclaimer that by posting this, I’m not claiming to know or understand something I’ll never truly experience as a white person. This oneshot is simply my attempt to try. That’s all I’m trying to do here. If you feel that I’ve gotten anything wrong or that I’m misled or misinformed, please PM me or leave a review and let me know. I’ll change or fix it however I can. You can share your experiences with me if you want, if you think it’ll help me understand better, or if you think it’ll help me make what I’ve written more realistic. I’m open to literally everything any of you have to say. 
> 
> This is a stand-alone fic, completely separate from my whole other Fillmore universe. i hope you guys like it! And, as I said, if you think I’ve got it all wrong, or you’ve got any suggestions, please feel free to let me know, either through reviews or PMs. This has been one helluva learning process for me, and I know I have more to learn. The one thing that I know for sure, without question: 
> 
> BLACK LIVES MATTER. 
> 
> I love you all. Please stay safe out there, be kind, and continue to fight for what’s right. I’ll try and do the same.

Cornelius Fillmore has never seen his father cry. Their family had been through a lot, but no matter what, his father never cried. At least, not in front of him. Cornelius always wondered why. Maybe he had a fear of vulnerability or lacked functioning tear ducts. Or maybe his grandfather had instilled that toxic masculine trait in him. Cornelius found that hard to believe, knowing his grandfather as well as he did. 

He wondered what it would take. Would it take the loss of his job he worked so hard for? A death in the family? Or something wonderful and happy, like his son’s wedding? College acceptance letters? The birth of a grandchild? As an investigator, Cornelius Fillmore dwelled on the possibilities far too often. He was always searching for evidence that could lead to a conclusion. 

As often as he wondered, he never thought he would actually see it. 

It was Memorial Day. School was finally over, quarantine restrictions were loosening, and he couldn’t be more relieved. He never thought online schooling could be so draining. But, there was finally something to celebrate. Today was their annual Fillmore Memorial Day barbeque. Everyone was full, relaxed, and enjoying quality time together after weeks of quarantine. 

Fillmore smiled at the starry night sky. He took a deep breath in, savoring the lingering scent of smoking meat in the early summer heat. He exhaled and leaned back in his lawn chair. He wished he could sear it into his memory like Ingrid could. It must be nice to be able to remember the perfect days at will. His smile grew as he watched his mom circle the yard lighting the tiki torches. She’d let down her hair – a tell-tale sign she was finally relaxing – and was laughing at his Uncle Leroy. The corners of her lips reached her ears. 

Fillmore hadn’t seen her laugh like that in weeks. For someone as outgoing as his mother, quarantine had worn her down. Essential errands were too-small-a-taste of what she really needed: connection and laughter. It was great to see her back to her normal self. 

“What are you smiling about?” Ingrid asked from her chair at his side, where she always was. Thankfully, quarantine hadn’t taken that from them. He wouldn’t have made it through their online classes without her, that was for sure. 

“School is officially _over_ over, I’ve got a belly full of ribs, wings, and mustard greens, and my family all around.” He gestured to the rest of the Fillmore family spread around the patio. “What’s not to smile about?” 

“Good point.” Ingrid shrugged, a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Is there anything else?” Fillmore smirked. She knew him too well, was always paying too close attention. Not meek or shy, but observing, much like an anthropologist. He hoped one day she’d break out of that shell and be with them, but she had her system. She would open up one day, but on her own time. 

Lord knows Gram was waiting for it. She was nothing but snarky, sweet, and inclusive when Ingrid was around. Well, she was always that way, but especially around Ingrid. She was Gram’s “white whale”; she would get Ingrid to warm up to the family if it was the last thing she did. 

Ingrid loved Gram, although she’d never admitted it. The fact she was still wearing the iron-on “Fillmore Bags Champion 2020” t-shirt Gram made said it all. It was intentionally ugly and made to fit the three-year reigning champion: his cousin Ty. As a result, it was three sizes too big for his partner. She’d had to tuck it in her shorts to keep it from being a dress. Gram had never forced anyone to wear her cheap homemade shirts, but Ingrid was the exception. It was a test on Gram’s part, knowing that Ingrid Third has never failed a test. But, even after all these years, she still didn’t quite understand that Ingrid was simply learning. The entire family gathering didn’t happen very often, so she spent her time soaking everything in.

It was one of the things he loved about her. Her evergreen eyes never missed a detail. Every move carefully calculated, every idea well-thought through. It made her the sincerest person he knew. He nodded towards his mother. “It’s good to see her happy again,” he admitted. 

Ingrid followed his gaze and smirked. “Yeah, it is.” She’d been around a lot since the quarantine started and saw how Joelle deflated over its duration. “I don’t know how she does it.” 

Fillmore looked at her and raised his eyebrow. “Does what?” 

“Cater to all these people all day long and still have energy left over,” she explained. Fillmore laughed. “I would’ve crapped out four hours ago.” 

“You shoulda seen her earlier. She was talking a million miles an hour and making six things at once like it was _nothing_.” Ingrid looked at him, a bemused smile on her red lips. “She’s been building all this energy up for weeks, and I’m sure there’s plenty more where that came from.” He brought his room-temperature root beer to his lips for a drink. 

“I bet. I wish she’d share,” she said through a yawn. “I sure could use some of it.” She sank farther into her chair and hugged her knees to her chest. 

Fillmore chuckled and shook his head. “I’m surprised your introverted ass hasn’t snuck home yet. It’s way late for you.” 

“I’ve thought about it. Many times.” 

“What’s stopping you?” 

“If I stand up, Ty will beg for his bags rematch, and I don’t think I have the energy to smoke him again.” 

“He’s been drinking steady ever since. Maybe he forgot?” 

“He didn’t forget,” she said, eying his uncle standing over the firepit. “He’s been waiting for me to get up since I sat down.”

Fillmore raised his eyebrow, glancing at his cousin through the corner of his eyes. “You haven’t left that spot for, like, two hours.” 

“The man sure can hold a grudge.” 

“You have no idea,” Fillmore said with a smile. Ty was the kind of guy who didn’t handle hurt pride very well. He always had to be right, always had to win. Once, when Fillmore was a kid, he’d beaten him at a game of Horse and the then-teenager almost left a basketball-sized hole in their chain link fence. He was the true definition of a sore loser. Ingrid knew that when she’d accepted his challenge. “You mighta picked the wrong guy to beat.” 

“Or did I pick the right one? Who’s over there brooding and who got a cool-ass homemade t-shirt from your grandma?” 

Fillmore threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “Mama, you’re trippin. I love my gramma, but that shirt is the _worst_.” 

“I earned this shirt.” Ingrid crossed her arms over the print on her chest. “Don’t make the shirt feel bad about itself.”

Fillmore shook his head, letting a final chuckle pass his lips. He didn’t want her to leave yet, but he should put her out of her introverted misery. He jerked his head towards the house. “How about I clear your escape route?” 

Ingrid sighed with relief. “My hero.” 

“Oh, please, we all know _you’re_ the hero in this relationship,” he said, then winked. “I’m just the sexy, leather-clad sidekick.” 

Ingrid winked back at him as he stood up. “I always knew deep down you were Catwoman.” 

Hands on his hips, Fillmore sighed, then rubbed his bald head. “I walked right into that one.” Ingrid smiled at him. She dropped her legs down from her chest and crossed them in front of her, leaning her arm against the chair. To the untrained eye, she was adjusting for comfort, but Fillmore knew better. She was preparing to spring into action. “Meet at my truck?” he asked under his breath as he grabbed his root beer off the table between them. She nodded, so Fillmore headed towards his cousin, pointing his bottle at her as he walked away. “Don’t run home on me, mama,” he said louder than necessary. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she answered, bringing her soda bottle to her lips and pulling out her phone. But she wouldn’t be browsing; she’d be waiting. 

Fillmore turned his attention to his cousin. Showtime. Ty had straightened at Fillmore’s approach, keeping a keen eye on his partner behind him. Fillmore reached up and patted his cousin’s arm. “Hey man, you need a refill?” he asked, pointing at his empty beer bottle. 

“Nah, son—” Ty nodded at Ingrid “—I need a rematch. When she gonna sack up?” 

Fillmore resisted the urge to chastise him for the bags pun. Knowing Ty, it likely doubled as innuendo, but Fillmore chose to ignore it. Ingrid didn’t need defending – she needed an escape. So, instead, he grinned at him. “Maybe when you finally sack up and wife that fine lady helping Mom with the dishes.” 

Ty blushed, and Fillmore knew he had him. “Man,” Ty drawled as Fillmore moved to stand to Ty’s far left. “Why you always bust my balls about that?” Ty asked and shifted to face him, successfully taking Ingrid out his line of sight. Ingrid stood up with a thankful nod in her partner’s direction. 

“Because she’s gonna get sick of waiting on you and upgrade to me when I turn 18,” Fillmore joked. He dragged a finger under his eye as she slipped out through the fence, completely undetected. Before Ty could retort, Fillmore snatched the bottle from his hand. He headed for the cooler, which sat at the base of the steps. 

“Yeah, right, like she’d ever chase your uptight, law-abiding ass!” Ty barked, a hint of jealousy on his tongue. 

“Emphasis on ‘tight’,” Fillmore said and grabbed a beer out of the cooler. He tossed it at Ty, who caught it with ease and a sarcastic glare. Fillmore winked at him as he retreated inside. “I see her checking it out when you ain’t looking.” A string of obscenities followed him inside before the door shut behind him, cutting the rest of them off. 

Fillmore shook his head. Ty was too predictable. He tossed the empty bottles in the trash can and circled, looking for his keys. 

“Looking for something, sweetheart?” his mom asked as she appeared in the doorway with a tray full of cookies. He almost smiled. She enjoyed hosting too much. 

“Yeah, my keys,” he said and reached for the doorknob behind him. “Gotta get Ingrid outta here before Ty realizes she snuck off.” 

She rolled her eyes as she approached. “He’s too competitive for his own good. I think I saw them hanging up by the front door. Thank her for coming, and for humoring your grandmother by wearing that horrendous shirt all afternoon!” 

Fillmore grinned as he swung the door open for her. “You know Ingrid likes flaunting her trophies, no matter how hideous.” 

“Very true. You be careful,” she said. She leaned up to kiss his cheek as she walked past him. “And if you see your father anywhere, you tell him to get his cute ass back out here with his guests, would you?” 

“You got it, Mom,” he answered with an amused smile and made his way towards the front door. One day, he hoped to have the same kind of relationship his parents had. Twenty years together and still disgustingly in love. It used to embarrass him, but not anymore. 

He faltered in his step as he walked down the hallway towards the living room. Where was his father? Fillmore hadn’t seen him in over an hour, and he wasn’t one to seclude himself from a party. True to his mother’s word, his keys dangled on the rack sitting above the switch to the porch lights. So, he shook the curious thoughts from his head. He needed to get Ingrid home. Ty would notice her absence any minute if he hadn’t already. Fillmore snatched his keys, flicked on the porch lights, and walked outside. He prepared to skip down the steps when something in the corner of his eye stopped him. 

Karim Fillmore sat on the porch swing, head hung low, and hand over his mouth. He glared at his phone, shaking his head. He narrowed his eyes at the scene in front of him. His father hadn’t even looked up when he walked out. Did he not hear him? Fillmore took a step towards him to get his attention, but he froze as he watched a tear fall from his eye to the ground. 

His father… was crying? 

He gulped. He’s never seen him cry. Whatever he was seeing couldn’t be good. He took another step towards him, his heart racing and partner forgotten. “Dad?” he asked. His father continued shaking his head, not looking up from his phone. He was muttering under his breath, but Fillmore couldn’t quite make it out. “Dad?”

Karim sat up straight with an intake of breath, finally noticing his son’s presence. He swiped at his eyes, which then fell on the keys in Fillmore’s hands. They widened like saucers and he shot up from his seat. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

Fillmore’s heart dropped into his gut. He fought the defensive urge to snap at Karim as he closed the distance between them in two large steps. It wasn’t anger in his father’s eyes. It was pure fear. His father didn’t know fear. At least, Fillmore never would’ve thought so. His mouth went dry, but he answered, “I’m just taking Ingrid home.” 

Karim yanked the keys out of his hands and held them out of reach. “You’re not leaving this house tonight, you understand me?” 

Fillmore scoffed. “Dad, what the—” 

“Do you understand me?” he shouted, a furious panic evident in his eyes. Fillmore’s mouth flapped open and shut. Far behind them, Ingrid’s head peered between the poles of the porch banister, waiting for the signal to intervene. Karim doesn’t often raise his voice. Not since Fillmore stopped getting himself into trouble. 

“Dad, what—”

“We’ll call Nathan, have him come get her. You—” he grabbed Fillmore by the arm and pulled him back towards the front door, “—get back inside, and stay there.” 

Fillmore yanked his arm out of his father’s vicelike grip and backed away. “The hell did I do?” he blurted. Karim hadn’t physically disciplined his children in years, ever since they stopped being children. He’d never grabbed at him like that, either. That paired with the panic and the tears in his father’s eyes shook Fillmore to his core. He pressed his back against the porch railing to quell his urge to run as his father grabbed for him again. This was his _father_ … surely he wouldn’t hurt him, but he must’ve done something to merit whatever this behavior was. Although, for the life of him, he couldn’t think of what. 

Ingrid appeared beside Fillmore on the stairs. Not that Fillmore couldn't hold his own, but something peculiar tainted the air. She didn’t like it. She’d never seen or heard Karim act this way. Something had him rattled. She wanted to be prepared to step between them, if necessary. 

There was an untamed terror in his normally kind eyes as the man pointed at them with a clenched hand. “Both of you, get inside—” he reached for Fillmore again. The front door burst open, and Joelle came rushing out “— _right. now._ ” 

Fillmore pulled away from him and closer to Ingrid, holding a protective arm out in front of her and himself. He nearly stumbled down the steps, but she steadied him as Joelle stepped between her husband and son. 

“Kay, stop it! You’re scaring them!” she said with a trembling voice. She guided him back towards the front door, her hands flat against his chest. 

“They should be scared!” Karim shouted at her. She mumbled something to him, but he shook his head at her. “They killed that man. Our son goes out there—” he gestured towards the city, “—they’ll kill him too!” 

Air fled from Fillmore’s lungs. What man? Who killed him? Why would they kill him? Ingrid placed a hand against his back, no doubt asking herself the same questions. He reached behind him and held his hand out to her, which she took without hesitation. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d taken her hand to run from danger, but this was the first time he’d done it at home. 

Karim was hyperventilating now as Joelle ushered him back towards the house. “We shouldn’t be raising our kid in a world like this, Jo—” he gasped, tears flowing freely, “—after everything we’ve done—” 

“I know—”

“How many of us have to die?” 

“I know, Karim, please…” Joelle trailed off and glanced behind her at the two teenagers on the porch steps. They looked ready to bolt or fight; she couldn’t tell which. She turned back to her husband and opened the door for him. “Go inside, please.” As the door swung open, Fillmore heard more shouting coming from inside. He gulped. What in the hell was going on? Everything had been fine not five minutes ago. What could possibly—

Karim pushed past his wife and grabbed his son by the shoulders. Fillmore’s heart raced. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, sounding off _danger, danger, danger,_ but this was his father. Again, he stifled the instinct to fight him off. Instead, he grabbed his dad’s wrists to steady him as he pleaded, “Don’t go out there, son, please—” 

Ingrid tried to step between them. “Karim, let go of him—” 

He ignored her, tightening his grip. “I’m begging you, Cornelius, please stay.” Joelle and Ingrid both tried to coerce Fillmore from his father’s grasp, but he couldn't hear them. Cornelius kept his gaze locked with his father, mesmerized by the fear in his eyes as Karim continued to beg him. He’d never heard his father beg for anything in his life. _“Don’t beg for anything you can earn,”_ he’d said to him countless times. 

A thousand different scenarios ran through Fillmore’s head at a million miles an hour. Someone died, but who? Someone he knew and was close to, but most of the people whose death his father would mourn were in their backyard. It didn’t leave many people he could think of, but the possibilities cycled in his head. Could it be something else entirely? Another 9/11 scenario, or something to do with his brother and the 510? His head spun. 

So, he swallowed the cotton coating his mouth, and nodded at him. “Yeah, okay, Dad.” He patted his father’s forearm, hoping to reassure him of his sincerity. “Yeah, I’ll stay.” 

Relief flooded the older man’s features, though Fillmore felt far from it. He released Fillmore’s shoulders and held his face in his hands, and said, “You’ll stay?” Fillmore nodded again. With that, Joelle coaxed Karim back inside while Ingrid stayed close to her partner. She felt tense beside him, ready to spring into action with any drastic change in the atmosphere. Her wary gaze flickered between him and his parents, then settled on him.

His racing thoughts struggled to make a connection. Karim rambled on, a cacophony of “how could this still be happening,” “haven’t we suffered enough,” “when,” “why,” “how”. Fillmore’s thoughts went to the worst-case scenario. It must’ve been his brother. Perhaps he finally succumbed to his addictions. Maybe a deal went wrong or something else gang-related. It’d been years since he’d seen him, who knows what he’d gotten himself into? 

Heavy grief began to settle in his chest, and his eyes began to burn as Ingrid’s fingers grazed his arm. When he met her eyes – she was eye-level with him now, thanks to her position on the steps – they brimmed with worry, and softened upon seeing his glisten. He gulped his grief back down his throat and looked away. He couldn’t bear her looking at him like that. He was grateful for a partner he could count on to have his back, but he made a point to never let anyone see him cry. Especially not Ingrid.

Just like his father. 

His father finally retreated inside, shouting for his mother and brother. Fillmore let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he faded from sight. Joelle shut the door behind her husband and turned back to them. “Ingrid—” she let out a shaky breath, “—can your father come pick you up?” 

Ingrid nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem.” 

“If he can’t, you stay here tonight. You can take the guest room.” Ingrid nodded again, but didn’t reach for her phone, and didn’t budge from his side. Joelle looked between them, then behind her towards their house. Her mouth formed a straight line as she heard the commotion rising inside before looking at her son. “Unless you’d like to stay with her?” 

His heart pounded against his chest. Something had everyone spooked, and he didn’t like being the only one not in the loop. “What happened, Mom?" 

She gaped at him with sympathetic watery eyes. “Y-You haven’t seen it yet?” 

“Seen what?” Ingrid asked. 

Joelle put her face in her hands and held her breath. A tense silence permeated the space between them as she struggled to find the words. _Just say it, Mom,_ he silently begged. He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, not with his jaw trembling the way it was. 

Ingrid watched him struggle with his composure from the corner of her eye. The suspense hung heavy in the air, stale and humid, threatening to choke them. “It might be easier if you say it really fast,” Ingrid suggested. 

Joelle ran her hands through her hair as she looked up from the ground at them. Her jaw flapped open and shut before she sighed. “One of your father’s old friends from his time at the Salvation Army…” She paused, wrestling with the right words. Fillmore gulped. “He… he was killed by police tonight. Apparently, there’s a video…” she trailed off, looking down at her hands while Fillmore processed the information. 

He almost deflated with relief. It wasn’t his brother, but it was still bad. He closed his eyes and exhaled, his father’s words echoing in his head: not again. His wild panic made sense now. His father had been an activist back in the ’90s when Rodney King was nearly beaten to death by cops. It was right around the time Joelle was pregnant with his brother. Karim had organized protests, rallies, vigils, petitions, you name it. He wanted to make the world safer for his unborn son. 

Here it was, happening all over again after all these years. And in their own backyard. Fillmore didn’t need to know details. He knew enough. He fell back against the railing, took off his glasses, and ran a hand over his face. He couldn’t stay at Ingrid’s if he wanted to (and, hearing the commotion coming from inside, he really wanted to). He’d stay, if only for his father’s peace of mind. 

“There are rumors of riots and protests all through the city tonight. Just…” Joelle trailed off as she looked back at Ingrid, who’d gone a paler shade of white at the news. Something akin to epiphany plagued her eyes, and Joelle nodded at her with a sad smile. “…neither of you leave the porch ‘til Nathan gets here. Okay?” Fillmore muttered his agreement while Ingrid nodded. With their reassurance, Joelle disappeared inside. 

Fillmore hooked his glasses in the collar of his shirt and crossed his arms as the front door slammed shut. It wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before – Mike Brown, Philando Castile, and countless others – but never so close to home. Never someone they knew. He hated to admit it, even if only to himself, but it frightened him. His father’s reaction made sense now. He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh, and Ingrid looked over at him. 

“Son of a…” Fillmore began, but his breath caught. His chest felt too tight, like it was suddenly too small to hold his heart. He needed to sit down. He dragged his heavy feet over to the porch swing and sat down with a huff. He was too aware of Ingrid’s eyes watching him as he rested his head in his hands. 

The reality crashed down around him. He wasn’t sure who died. He didn’t remember many of his father’s friends if he were being honest. Karim was an outgoing, friendly man, much like himself. He made friends every day. It was hard to keep up with names and faces. Although, he wasn’t sure that the details mattered. His thoughts swirled, then settled like silt deep in his gut. 

He didn’t know what to feel. Afraid? Sure. Deep down, he always was. He never ran red lights, avoided going certain places alone at night, always had his ears peeled for sirens heading his way. It was instinct at this point, a survival mechanism left over from his time as a delinquent. He wished he could blame it solely on that and not his skin color. But he’d learned at a young age what being black meant. Inspired by his brother, instead of fighting to challenge racial stereotypes, he wore them like battle armor. Gotta be tough, invincible, not scared of nobody. _Especially not cops_ , his brother’s voice rang in his head. 

But Cornelius Fillmore let himself feel afraid, now. And he had every reason to. It could’ve been anyone that day. It could’ve been his father, who’d made too many last-minute trips into town for party supplies. Ty and his girl, cause he’d be damned if he didn’t roll through stop signs like they were suggestions instead of the law. Could’ve been Gram, if her car fit a description. 

He sighed. It could’ve been him on his way to pick Ingrid up from her aunt’s house earlier that afternoon. She lived smack in the middle of Minneapolis. For a moment, he felt grateful the journey ended without a hitch. It could’ve been him. 

It could’ve been him. That fear had never felt so plausible before. He shuddered at the thought as tears threatened to resurface. Ingrid whispered his name from her spot on the stairs – she hadn’t moved an inch. He gulped the lump back down his throat before looking over at her. She opened her mouth to speak but decided against it. She bit her lip and picked at her fingernails, which is something she never did. Ingrid Third didn’t fidget. She wasn’t a nervous person. She spoke with conviction, acted with unabashed certainty. She must be freaked out. 

His cheeks burned, so he cleared his throat. “You haven’t called your dad yet,” he pointed out, rubbing his teary eyes in a pathetic attempt to hide them. _Pull it together, Fillmore,_ he berated himself.

Ingrid shrugged. “I won’t leave if you don’t want me to.” 

“Trust me, mama.” He avoided her gaze, and instead watched the lightning bugs flicker in his front yard. “You don’t wanna stay.” 

“You don’t know what I want.” 

He scoffed. Sassy as ever. “Fine, what do you want?” 

“I want you to tell me the truth.” He hadn’t expected that kind of answer. His brows furrowed as he looked over at her. He wondered what she could mean, considering his word hadn’t been in question. The forlorn look in her glistening eyes suggested something different. Something deeper. 

“What truth?” he asked.

She searched his eyes. The dangling porch lights cast a soft glow around her as she chose her words. “You make light of your skin color sometimes,” she said, her voice steady despite that damned look in her eyes. She took a step closer and leaned against one of the porch columns. “You joke about it to lighten the mood when headlines or conversations about race get too serious.” 

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He liked hearing her observations about others but hated it when she revealed hers about him. They ran too deep, too true. “Your point?” 

“Is that how you really feel?” she asked, nodding towards the door his parents disappeared behind. She crossed her arms, but her expression remained soft, almost timid. “That… that fear?” 

He immediately opened his mouth to protest, but her plea to tell her the truth played back in his mind. He bit his tongue and held his breath. He wished he could tell her no, of course not. He was her ever-fearless partner. He wasn’t afraid of anything. But if she was asking… she already knew the answer. She needed to hear him say it. 

Perhaps, she knew he needed to hear _himself_ say it. She’d always been the wise one between them. Yeah, he’d seen enough to spout a lot of good advice when he needed to, but she was wise beyond her years. It amazed him, some days. Her wisdom kept him honest. 

He exhaled – he forgot he’d been holding his breath – put his glasses back on and stood up. He crossed the porch and leaned against the railing beside her. She waited for his answer, her empathetic eyes never leaving his face. He bit his lip and found himself nodding at the fireflies. “There’s a reason I don’t speed,” he admitted, his voice a hair above a whisper. 

He grimaced as those words passed his lips. He hated those words. They tasted bitter in his mouth. He shouldn’t have to say them. He shouldn’t have to feel the way he did, shouldn’t have to fear for his life because of his skin color. It was 20-freaking-20 for God’s sake. How long would they have to keep fighting for their right to live a discrimination-free life? His father fought, his father’s father, and so on… Would his sons have to fight, too? 

Ingrid gasped next to him. When he looked over at her, she was shaking her head and looking right through him. “Fillmore, I…” she trailed off, swallowing whatever sentence that lodged in her throat. He watched the gears in her head turn with unspoken words. It wasn’t like her to not know what to say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” He sighed and shook his head. “I’ve heard all the stories, I’ve done all the research, but I—” 

“Ingrid, you don’t have to—” 

She interrupted him by wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight hug. For a split second, he froze in shock. What the hell—she was hugging him? She never did that. He could count on one hand the times she’d initiated a hug and still have fingers left over. Half their hugs were usually him trying to make her uncomfortable. Although, a part of him suspected she secretly enjoyed them. The only times she’d hugged him were times she sought comfort, and even then, only when she was desperate. 

He returned her embrace. He’d never take those for granted, especially not if she needed them. “No one should have to live in constant fear,” she murmured, then turned her face into his neck. His heart skipped a beat as her eyelashes, wet with tears, fluttered shut against his skin, and his mouth went dry. “Especially not you,” she whispered with trembling lips. 

He shut his eyes and held her tighter. Never in a million years would he have expected this reaction from her. She was his stone-cold, tough-as-nails partner. Always so clinical, so analytical. It’s not like she didn’t know the statistics – he was sure she had them all memorized. In her own weird Ingrid way, that was how she showed she cared. This was something different. This wasn’t about the statistics. This was about _him_. She was understanding _him_. How, while it might be similar, it was different from the dangers of being a girl walking alone at night, for example. While she might fear predators, he feared being mistaken for one. She was understanding – thank _God_ , someone was understanding. 

A tear fell from his eye. A weight lifted off his chest, and he found a way to breathe again.


End file.
